Classic Poem

The Rude Men of Brent

Had mournful Ovid been to Brent condemned,
His Tristibus he would more movingly have penned.
Gladly he would have changed his miry slough
For colder Pontus, and the Scythian snow.
The Getes were not so barbarous a race,
As the grim natives of this motley place,
Of reason void, and thought, whom instinct rules,
Yet will be rogues though nature meant 'em fools,
A strange half-human, and ungainly brood,
Their speech uncouth, as are their manners rude;
When they would seem to speak the mortals roar
As loud as waves contending with the shore;
Their widened mouths into a circle grow,
For all their vowels are but A and O.
The beasts have the same language, and the cow
After her owner's voice is taught to low;
The lamb to baw, as doth her keeper, tries,
And puppies learn to howl from children's cries.

Some think us honest, but through this belief,
That where all steal, there no one is a thief.
Rogues of all kinds you may at leisure choose;
One finds a horse, another fears the noose
And humbly is content to take the shoes.

It never yet could be exactly stated
What time of th'year this ball was first created.
Some plead for summer, but the wise bethought 'em
That th'earth like other fruits was ripe in autumn;
While gayer wits the vernal bloom prefer,
And think the smiling world did first appear
In th'youthful glory of the budding year.
But the bleak Knoll, and all the marshes round
(A sort of chaos, and unfinished ground)
Were made in winter, one may safely swear,
For winter is the only season there.

Of four prime elements all things below
By various mixtures were composed, but now
(At least with us) they are reduced to two.
The daily want of fire our chimneys mourn,
Cow-dung and turf may smoke, but never burn.
Water and earth are all that Brent can boast,
The air in mists and dewy steams is lost;
We live on fogs, and in this moory sink
When we are thought to breathe, we rather drink.

It's said the world at length in flames must die
And thus interred in its own ashes lie.
If any part shall then remain entire
And be excepted from that common fire,
Sure 'twas this wat'ry spot that nature meant,
For though the world be burned, this never will be Brent.